Caravan Callers
by Sanaryelle
Summary: Sabriel's grandfather, the fiftieth Abhorsen, encounters the Dead at the fishing village of Nestowe. Mogget is a wisecracking albino dwarf.


_A/N: Sabriel, Touchstone, and Mogget save the villagers of Nestowe from a Mordaut. When they arrive at the island where the villagers had been sheltering, the Elder says: "The Abhorsen who came when I was young…saved us from the haunts that came in the merchant's caravan." Who was this man, you ask? That would be Sabriel's grandfather, the fiftieth Abhorsen!_

_A thousand thanks for the correction, Lady of the Outlaws!_

_Disclaimer: Ancelstierre, the Old Kingdom, and all of their contents belong to Garth Nix. I have given the Abhorsen mentioned above a name and a personality, but he is still not entirely mine._

**Caravan Callers**

It was night. Rain pelted down on Nestowe, muffling all sound. A hooded figure strode purposefully down the muddy road towards the village. His boots splashed through puddles and scraped on wet gravel.

As the figure drew nearer, he could hear faint screams distorted by the howling wind. A gloved hand reached under the cloak and withdrew a single bell. Holding it by the clapper, the stranger broke into a run, mud spattering in every direction, boots skidding slightly in the wet muck. He hurried to the main street of the village, and could just make out a crowd of dark shapes. They seemed to be savaging a building, where the screams were coming from.

"Well, Abhorsen?" The hooded man glanced down at the dwarf standing calmly at his side. Despite the rain and mud, his white robe was completely spotless.

"Well what?" Damiel, the Abhorsen, snapped. He almost missed a step and slipped in the brown sludge, barely keeping his balance.

"Are you going to banish them?" the albino dwarf asked lazily. "Run over there with bells ringing and sword waving? The usual drama?" His green eyes flashed with barely-suppressed amusement.

The man deliberately ignored him and continued on his way, hardly able to see through the deluge. He drew his sword at the same time that he flipped the bell one-handed, catching its handle and bringing it down to ring in a single motion. The leather of his glove stuck to the smooth mahogany handle quite well; he'd had a close call a year ago when a wet bell had slipped right out of his hand in mid-ring, with disastrous results.

The Dead paused in their assault on the building and turned to face him. Saraneth rang out, and the weaker ones instantly shucked their bodies and fled into Death at the sound. Some were frozen, bound to the Abhorsen's will. But the strongest shuffled their putrefied limbs and began to advance. Damiel raised his sword and swiftly cut down the two closest, before hastily retreating.

"Stupid move," the white dwarf commented from where he was standing under an overhang, water from the gutters streaming down beside him. "There were too many Dead to begin with, Abhorsen."

"At least they stopped attacking the inn!" Damiel snapped. He sheathed his sword to draw Ranna, and rang the two bells together: Binder and Sleeper. The Dead who had been frozen in their tracks lay down on the ground, and the ones who had been advancing paused to shake their lolling heads with sudden drowsiness.

But seven of the Dead were still drawing near. Damiel took a few more steps back, and rang the bells again. He could feel hold over the other Dead weakening as he distanced himself. He had to do something, and soon.

"You cannot put them _all _to sleep," the dwarf yawned indifferently. "You were never really an expert bell-ringer. No concentration whatsoever, that is your problem. You have to put your _will_ into it."

The young man refrained from lashing out at the dwarf and set his mouth in a determined line. He had bound most of the Dead, and they would stay that way as long as he kept his focus…

Making a quick decision, he put away both bells and drew a dagger from his leg-sheathe. Armed with the two blades, he threw himself towards the advancing Dead. The fight was quick but furious, with mud getting absolutely everywhere, but in the end seven chopped-up corpses lay in the mire, rain splashing on their putrid flesh.

The Abhorsen looked at the remaining Dead, who were either lying on the ground as if asleep, or standing frozen on their feet. He sheathed his blades. They were many, but if he kept his will he could walk them all.

"Don't you even try it," warned the dwarf, anticipating his next move. "You do not have the mental strength."

Those derisive words only caused Damiel to become even more resolute, and he drew Kibeth and Saraneth. Biting his lip with concentration, the young man rang the two bells together. The sleeping Dead sprang up, and the Abhorsen determinedly walked them into Death. It took every iota of his concentration, and he was completely exhausted by the end of it, but finally all that remained were spiritless bodies. The threat was gone.

The young man wavered on his feet, and the dwarf appeared unexpectedly at his side. Abhorsen grabbed a white-robed shoulder for support, not even leaving a muddy handprint on the strange gleaming cloth. "I told you not to do it," the dwarf was saying irritably. "And now you've gone and drained yourself. It was a stupid move, even for you."

Damiel was too tired to point out that ringing the bells had worked anyway, and allowed the dwarf to lead him over to the inn, where someone was cautiously opening the door. When they saw that he was not one of the Dead, the door was thrown open and willing hands pulled him inside to the warmth and firelight.

He was forcibly pushed into a stool, and a cup of hot tea was shoved into his hand. "What were you doing out there?" a large red-faced man demanded incredulously as someone took away Damiel's sodden cloak and draped a blanket over his shoulders. "You could have been killed by the haunts!"

The Abhorsen realized that the inn was jam-packed with people. Telling from the barricaded windows and odd assortment of weapons among the crowd, he guessed that the entire village had gathered here for a last stand.

He would normally have been very disconcerted by the countless pairs of wide eyes staring at him from every direction. But he was cold, wet, and exhausted. He managed to take a sip of tea, spilling it down his chin with his trembling hands. A motherly-looking old lady reached out gently to help him drink.

"There, now," she clucked. "Easy does it, lad."

The red-faced man crossed his arms impatiently. "You're not from Nestowe," he pointed out, suspicion flashing in his eyes. His gaze landed on the bell-bandolier, and he cried out, "Necromancer!" drawing a knife swiftly. Chaos erupted as people screamed, ducked for cover, drew weapons, or raised their hands to cast Charter spells.

The Abhorsen, however, made no move to try to defend himself. He merely sat on the stool clutching his tea, watching everyone with a very weary expression.

Someone whom Damiel assumed was the priest approached him hesitantly. The red-faced man held his knife-point under Damiel's unshaven chin with a warning not to move, something that the Abhorsen had absolutely no intention of doing anyway.

Reaching out with a quivering hand, the priest lightly touched Damiel's Charter mark. "It's all right," he confirmed, and everyone instantly relaxed. Weapons were put away with murmured apologies, and the tension faded from the room.

A young lad only a few years younger than Damiel pushed his way through the crowd. "The haunts from the spice merchant's caravan were crawling all over the village!" the boy said, gaping at him in open amazement. "What made you come here?"

Damiel cleared his throat. "I am the Abhorsen," he answered, and a shiver seemed to run through the villagers. He turned to look intently at the boy. "It is my purpose to slay the Dead."

A snort issued from the region around Damiel's elbow, and he looked down at the albino dwarf. "Always so melodramatic", the dwarf muttered in an undertone, so quietly that only Damiel could hear him. The young man considered upending his mug of tea onto his servant's head, but decided against it. It would be a waste of tea, after all.

"Well, thank goodness for that, milord," the motherly-looking old woman tutted, wrapping a second blanket securely around his shoulders. "We should've known by your blue coat with the silver keys. If you had been any other man, you would surely have been killed!"

"What a pity," remarked the dwarf, shaking his head disdainfully.

The red-faced man shuffled his feet. "Will you be staying, Abhorsen?" he asked gruffly.

The young man looked around at the scared faces. These were simple folk, fishing-people just trying to make a living. "I will leave in the morning," he said. "Your Charter Stone should offer you enough protection. It's only bad luck that the merchant came during the night."

"But if they come again," the lad pressed, worry in his eyes. "Will Abhorsen save us from the Dead?"

Damiel forced his tired features into an encouraging smile. "You can count on it," he promised, trying hard not to yawn or do anything that would otherwise spoil the effect.

He, like the Abhorsens before him, had not yet found Kerrigor's body. The amount of Dead turning up all over the Kingdom was astonishing, but at least this village still had an intact Charter Stone. If it was ever to be broken, Damiel shuddered to think of what would happen to the villagers. Pushing these uncomfortable thoughts to the back of his mind, the young man lurched to his feet. "May I please be given a room, to spend the n–"

The Abhorsen's words were abruptly cut off as he fainted dead away, and it was only the quick reflexes of two bystanders that saved him from crashing onto the floor. The lad hastily picked up the Abhorsen's sword, which had fallen to the ground.

The albino dwarf rolled his green eyes and motioned at the villagers supporting his master. "Well, come along!" he barked. "He needs bed rest, more than anything." As the limp form was carried up the stairs of the inn, the dwarf shook his head deprecatingly. "Always pushing himself to the edge," he muttered. "_Idiot _Abhorsen."

_A/N: Yes, the young lad was the Elder from Nestowe! And I didn't use Mogget's name because in the book _Sabriel_, Sabriel's dad doesn't seem to know who Mogget is. I suppose he used a different name for a few generations before that._

_Also, I have received many comments pointing out that Sabriel's father was preceded by his aunt, so I will address that here. I have designated Damiel as the fiftieth Abhorsen. Sabriel is the fifty-third, her father was the fifty-second, and therefore his aunt was the fifty-first. The scenario I've come up with is that Damiel dies young and is succeeded by his sister, who in turn trains his son. There are a few factors related to this interpretation. First, Damiel is rather impetuous and doesn't strike me as an Abhorsen who would live to a ripe old age. Second, the elder of Nestowe remembers that the Abhorsen he met as a boy was male. Third, Mogget mentions that four Abhorsens have died in the past century, alluding to an unusual frequency of deaths among Abhorsens. This is of course due to the tainted Charter, with the Royal Line all but gone and the Great Stones broken. It makes sense, therefore, to have an average of more than one Abhorsen per generation, with siblings succeeding each other rather than children or grandchildren. Finally, when Mogget is trying to remember which of Sabriel's ancestors made a comment about the hot springs, he says: "Your father always said that having permanent hot water was worth bearing the smell. Or was it your grandfather who said that? Or your great-great-aunt? Ah, memory…" This implies that Sabriel grandfather was, in fact, an Abhorsen. Am I an obsessive researcher? Oh yes, I am._


End file.
